Scars' Barrow
by InChrist-Billios
Summary: COMPLETE: A different look at eight fairy tales, incorporating the haunting underlying melody of a well known folk song.
1. Prologue

**This is very different from anything I've done in the past. It's rather angsty, as a whole, just for some heads' up. It's basically a four-part series of oneshots. I don't really know how else to describe it. I got the idea for putting Fairy Tales to "Scarborough Fair" and this is what happened. Each of the herbs that are repeated in the chorus of the song have different meanings, and it's those meanings I've based my oneshots on. **

**Parsley: bitterness. **

**Sage: strength. (children when barren) **

**Rosemary: faithfulness, love, remembrance. **

**Thyme: courage, discovering true love.**

**This first chapter is a sort of prelude. The real thing starts in Chapter Two.**

**Special thanks to **Yugao**, my beta, who's helping me with the series.**

* * *

_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

* * *

"Why, yes. Yes, I 'em. Why d'you ask?"

The man looked nervous, shifting his eyes warily about, as if he was expecting more people to join the destitute man pulling on his sleeve.

"Remember me to one who lives there," the man whispered, not letting go of the man's worn jacket sleeve. "She was once a true love of mine."

"A'right, sure, what's 'er name?" the other man said cautiously.

"You'll know her when you see her. She's the most beautiful thing in the world. Her smile is more radiant than the stars, her hair softer than silk, deeper chestnut than chocolate, and her eyes are greener than the meadows in the spring. You'll know her."

"Sure, sure, a'right," the other man said, slipping out of his grip. "I'll let 'er know."

"Wait," the man said, clutching at his sleeve again. "Tell her – tell her to make me a cambric shirt, without any seams or needlework, and then she can be my love again. And give her this."

He dug in his tattered pocket for a moment, then pulled out a slightly crumpled handkerchief with something rolled up inside.

"I will," the other man said, snatching the bundle and hurrying away before the lunatic could say anything else.

"A cambric shirt without seams or needlework," he muttered. "What nons'nse. He's touched, or's had too much to drink. P'raps both."

* * *

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme._

* * *


	2. Parsley

_Remember me to the one who lives there._

* * *

"Just some water, if ye please," he insisted, and the storekeeper scurried away to fetch it.

The sun was blazing, and he had a long way yet to go. Water would be a mercy. The storekeeper had tried to peddle fruit to go with it, but the man was firm. The storekeeper returned with a glass of water which the man drank quickly, thanked him, and ducked out of the shade of his porch. He joined the throng heading toward Scarborough, and felt something slip into his pocket. With quick reflexes, he grabbed the hand of the pickpocket, and the boy yelped, dropping the handkerchief.

It unrolled some and bounced along the road. The man dove for it, snatching it from under the horse's hooves, but a sprig of parsley had fallen out. The broken leaves were smashed and covered in dust. The man secured the handkerchief again, threw a last look at the parsley, and walked on.

* * *

Brigonia pushed the blankets off of her, getting out of bed. She needn't bother being quiet; Drake had taken a drink to cool his nerves, which always made him sleep harder. She knew this. Clad in only her nightgown, she pressed herself against the window and wondered what her fair sisters were doing, for it was not late in the evening. Drake had insisted on a romantic evening, and he held his liquor a little less well then she did. By the moon's rise, Brigonia would guess it was barely ten. All of her other sisters were probably still at the ball.

Imogene would be dancing the night away, the only one of them who would still dance after what had happened, and be enjoying every moment of it. She was so young when it happened; it didn't bother her. She hardly remembered anymore, after a scant year had passed. How wonderful to be thirteen again.

Georgiana would be sulking in the corner of some room, avoiding everyone and everything and lashing out at those who dared to talk. No one could compare to the Fairer Folk. No company was worth her effort anymore. Even her husband avoided her.

Harmonenne would be asking boys to dance, only because she felt badly that they were too shy to ask anyone else. She had to grit her teeth to fight back memories, but she felt it was worth it to see them smile. Once or twice, they even asked someone else to dance after they'd led her off the floor.

Francesca would be kissing her husband – she was just married and seemed to find it a liberating novelty. It was hard to keep them apart if they weren't doing anything else. Maybe she didn't realize that kissing wasn't all there was. Or maybe, she was in love. Maybe, she was just trying to forget.

Alexandra would be laughing with her friends, and not realizing that boys were flirting with her. She was so young then, too, and she had forgotten, totally forgotten. The illness had cured her, paradoxically. She could still be naïve. She could still giggle and act like a child.

Mignonette would be invisible, wearing the closest shade of color to the wall color as possible, and dreading that someone would ask her to dance. Her memories were so vivid that she often woke up screaming, or so Daniella had told her. Whenever she danced, she almost broke out into tears.

Daniella would be fussing. She would be trying to scare boys away from her younger sisters and trying to keep the older sisters from burying themselves in the woodwork. Being the middle child was always hard on her, and Brigonia knew she would be the first of them all to grey. Even though two of her older sisters had yet to wed, she had found herself a husband. It was to be expected.

Fallonria would just be hiding, avoiding Daniella and any boys. She grew paler and paler with every day that passed, until now she looked like a marble statue. The physicians found nothing wrong, and delicately said it must have been a "side effect" to the time. She knew the only place she fit in now was with the Fair Folk.

Bellissima would be trying to talk with people, shortly and haltingly, but she put effort into it. As long as they didn't mention the time, she could normally handle it fairly well. Being one of the youngest, she was one of the most beloved and coddled. Her stutters were met with warmth.

Veronica would be avidly discussing books or art with anyone who knew anything about them. She would slip and mention an artist of the Fair Folk sometimes, and have to turn away from the conversation to recollect herself.

Julianne would be searching, ever searching, for a Fair Folk to appear. She hardly spoke, and her eyes went through everyone. She knew they would come for her. She knew He would come. And she would wait, she would be vigilant. The empty silver in her eyes made people glide uneasily by.

Brigonia stared down at the lights, and the carriages beginning to arrive for the early departures. She felt the bitterness well up inside her.

Drake.

It was all his fault, really. If it wasn't for him, Mignonette would not have nightmares, Julianne would be the happy woman she used to be, Georgiana would talk, Harmonenne – the most innocent of them all – would not be tortured with memories whenever she tried to do good, Francesca might enjoy her marriage, Daniella could be carefree, Alexandra would have responsible older sisters to look up to, and so would Imogene, Fallonria would be bronze and robust, Veronica could write or paint without having a panic attack, and Bellissima would be able to say more than three words at a time.

They would still be dancing, happy and free, with the Fair Folk. They were born, each more beautiful than the last until beautiful Georgiana was left behind, though she didn't care, and no one could compare to their shining visages. People were stunned by their terrifying beauty. The Fair Folk were the only ones whom they felt inferior to; whom they felt normal with, and now, they were taken away.

Drake.

So what if they had missed sleep – the Fair Folk gave them energy. They slept through the day. They didn't belong in this dirty, ugly world. They belonged in a land of silver trees, golden apples, and diamond spiderwebs. They belonged with the beauty that made them gasp. They belonged with the Men who really loved them.

Drake stirred, and rose. Brigonia gritted her teeth, but his trailing kisses down her neck gave her a pleasant shiver.

He had saved them, so everyone had said. They said no mortal could live in the immortal realm without perishing. Brigonia wouldn't have believed it if Alexandra had not gotten so sick just before Drake had discovered them. She could hardly dance, so great was her coughing, but after a few nights without dancing she was good as new, except for a strange lapse in memory. She could recall nothing of the Fine Folk.

Drake ran his hands up and down her sides, and whispered in her ear.

"Are you well, my love?"

His voice, harsh and rough, had been the hardest thing to get used to. He was ruggedly handsome, like soldiers should be, but his voice had made her cringe. Now, it was almost endearing. She was growing used to it. His apologies, his doting actions, his undeniably sweet character: they had started to erase the bitterness. As long as he was always there to rub it away again, she might be all right. In time.

The Man flashed before her eyes again, yelling and screaming her betrayal. With a cry and a sob, she whirled around and buried her face in his bare chest. He wrapped his arms around her soothingly, rubbing her back.

"It's alright, Brigit, it's alright. He's not here. It's not your fault."

He kissed her hair, her temple, her tear-streaked cheek.

"It's going to be alright."

* * *

She waited for Robin to come home. She prepared dinner automatically, dashing in some of this spice and a bit of that one, no longer a mish-mash of guesswork like it had been before. Over the years she liked to think she was a somewhat accomplished cook. Everything she made was now edible, and edible without too much salt added, either.

She tried not to think that she should, by rights, have much more than a cook to aid her.

She scrubbed the laundry vigorously and hung it to dry, singing for the flowers to make it smell beautiful, a smell that no other land could give. The tantalizing aroma of sunflower, lavender, daisy, poppy, and black-eyed-susans. She sang that the sun dry it and the wind blow it, to keep it soft and bright.

She tried not to think that her hands should never have grown this rough.

She swept the floors and shook the rugs, smiling at the clean cottage. It was fit and snug, with everything they needed, but not much extra. Her new rocking chair sat by the fire, hand carved by Robin, though how he did it, heaven only knew.

She tried not to think of the elegant furnishings she should have.

She spread more seeds on the dirt path and watched as cardinals and bluebirds pecked lightly at them. Sparrows and larks joined them, with goldfinches and robins, until the blue jays came and chased them away. She shooed the noisy bullies off and the more timid birds came back. She put some seed on her hand, and was rewarded when a fledgling cardinal landed on it and ate some.

She tried not to think of the aviary she should have.

She heard Robin coming and looked up, watching him make his way expertly along the trail. He had a brace of conies in one hand, ready to skin and add to the stew, and his walking stick in the other, tap, tap, tapping along the path. His back was straight and young, and his mouth was smiling, as it always was. She ran to meet him, embracing and kissing him as was her custom. He joked about her new haircut, feeling the freshly razored edges, and she asked him what he had seen today that was interesting. They both laughed.

She tried not to think of the man she should have.


	3. Sage

_She once was a true love of mine._

* * *

The blazing sun beat down on the heads of the travelers. More than a few handkerchiefs darted out to wipe their brows. The man had just wiped his own forehead when another man jostled him.

"Ya don't 'ave a hankie ta spare, do ya?" he asked apologetically. "I plum forgot mine."

"Sure, here ye go," the man said, pulling his spare from his pocket.

The rolled up one came with it, but the man caught it before it tumbled to the ground again. Another slender plant drifted out of the white folds, but he missed as he grabbed for it. The other man stepped on it without noticing. The man looked back at it.

Sage.

* * *

They said she was strong. Alma believed them, or she thought she did. She had no reason to disbelieve, anyway. She never knew why they said she was strong, or why they said she needed to be strong, but she didn't ask. How could it occur to her that something so dreadful would happen? She was only sixteen, had never thought to ask where her dresses came from, and so was perplexed when she came upon the spinning wheel.

_What is that?_

Those words had been her downfall. If she had not asked, though, maybe the woman would have stabbed her with the needle. Perhaps it was better that way. She felt no fear as she slipped into heavy sleep, without even a gasp to accompany the welling blood on her finger. It bled much more than it should have, so that when the servants found her in a panic hours later, it had bled into a dark pool, matting her lovely golden hair. The woman had screamed and fainted, but the man had run for help. The blood trickled on, trying to draw out that strength with it, trying to yank from Alma the will to live.

Alma slumbered peacefully, dreaming of fields and plays and boys who smiled.

When the doctors came they treated the tiny prick, wrapping it tightly to slow the bleeding, but it never stopped. Alma grew paler and paler, yellow and sickly, but on her mouth always curved a contented smile. In her dreams, she was a farmer's daughter and she was riding to town on a quaint little wagon with her doting mother, adoring father, and appropriately pesky brother. The blood continued to pull on her will, but her strength saved her.

She slept on.

She was cleaned up, changed, and put onto her bed upstairs. A servant would change the bandage around her finger daily, taking away the sopping rag and replacing it with a clean one. Her mother wept, fearing she would die. Her father yelled, screaming at the doctors to stop the bleeding. Her aunts and uncles wept and screamed, both. The whole country searched for the Witch to put her right.

In time, her family died. She was the only child, and a new palace was built on the other side of the kingdom. The people murmured that the family was cursed, and the palace was cursed. They forced a mayor to rule, and he did rule happily for many years.

When the last of her family and servants had died, there was no one to change the bandage. It soaked and dripped and formed a puddle on the floor.

Alma slumbered on, dreaming of princes and knights and jousting, yelling for her sweetheart and waving his colors.

The crimson puddle soaked through the gaps in the stone, coloring the wall below it a deathly warning for troublemakers that fought the weeds to find the abandoned palace. With every drip, the blood pulled harder at her will, darkening her dreams with thunderclouds, villains that vanished, starvation, disease, cruelty, injustice. Alma worked hard in her dreams to care for those who were dying, to right the wrongs, and never gave up.

Her strength saved her. That's what everyone said. Brandon whispered it as he pulled the curls away from her deathly pale cheeks, and saw the contented smile still lightening her brow.

_You are strong._

Those words revived her as they were murmured onto her cold lips as he kissed her. And when her eyes fluttered open, regarding Brandon with some shock, he said it again, and she smiled. Gingerly, she pulled the bloody wrapping from her finger, trying to remember what had happened, and saw the newly healed skin covering the prick. Her eyebrows furrowed.

_What happened?_

He told her her own story, all that had happened while she slept, and she wept onto his fine silk shirt. Her heart broke for her family. She didn't get to tell them goodbye. He told her to be strong. She didn't feel strong. But she had to be strong.

_Who are you?_

He told her his own story, growing up hearing of the maiden who slept, and how he was entranced with her the moment he saw her. She was entranced with him too. They married within a week and she was, once again, a princess. She was strong as she smiled at her people, different faces, different times, and she was strong as she stood among them, helping them gather the crops. She was a strong and willful woman, and Brandon loved her the more for it.

Her strength was not free, however. Some of it she inherited from her father, but most of it was learned through her perilous dreams. She found that if you were not strong, you did not live. Life could only be enjoyed by the strong.

So she walled herself inside her stony heart, and was strong.

* * *

Her mother had eaten sage, and that's that, she decided. She was an accident of witchcraft. If not for the sage, she would still be enjoying the pre-world, until she was born into some family naturally.

Her hair would be brown, she thought, browner than the fine smooth bark of the tree by her window. It would tangle and gnarl, and she would yell as her mother combed it out, because it would hurt.

Her skin would be burnt and freckled, or perhaps leathery and tanned, from time spent outside. She would go horseback riding and hunting with her seven brothers, and they would welcome her as one of their own. They would hardly know she was a girl. And _no one _would say she was pretty.

Her lips would be thin and pale, cracked in the winter. They would be ugly, and no one would want to kiss them, ever. She would never paint them or flaunt them, but neither would she have to hide them.

She would be plain. Boys wouldn't stare, girls wouldn't whisper, and her step-mother wouldn't glare. Actually, she wouldn't have a step-mother. She would have a real mother, who would smile and pet her messy hair fondly. And her father would smile too, and turn her upside down, tickling her until she screamed.

She would never eat sage, she concluded. If she was going to have children with Gloam, by all means, let them come. If she wasn't, well, she wouldn't lasso them and pull them into the world. Heaven knew she didn't like it much when the aromatic herb had encircled her and pulled her away.

_I'll be back!_

She had yelled that, she determined, to whatever angels she played with, as the rude plant twined around her ankle.

_I'll be back! Wait for me!_

And it had only succeeded in making her miserable. No. She would stand up for the unborn. If they wanted to stay that way, that was alright with her. Gloam didn't seem to think so, though. He grew impatient for a son. There was talk of his taking a second wife, if, after five years, she could not give him an heir.

_Let him take a second wife,_ she thought sharply, _if he thinks it will do him any good whatever._

"Here, try this, my love. The cook made it for you."

Gloam held out a small plate. It was a salad, exquisitely arranged, with only a drizzle of oil as she liked it.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, taking it, and the fork he offered.

"It is a special salad. Try it. He says he put something special in there."

The look in his eye, almost guilty, gave away his smooth speech.

"Is there sage in this?" she asked.

"I wouldn't know, darling," he said, too quickly.

She put the fork down.

"I won't, Gloam."

"Please, Blanche, it isn't witchcraft," he pleaded.

"It _is_," she insisted.

His eyes grew cold.

"Eat the sage, and give me a son, or I shall find a second wife."

Her doe eyes began to sting. Hearing the words coming from him dissolved her casual attitude to the rumored remark. She looked down at the salad, then up at Gloam.

She handed him the plate.

* * *

_Edit: Thank you, _Clar the Pirate_, for pointing out my typo._


	4. Rosemary

_If she tells me she can't, I'll reply:_

* * *

The pub was hot, very hot, and sticky. The man tried to keep his head clear as he lazily finished up his dinner and wiped his mouth with the napkin. Music hummed happily in the full dining room, keeping some background noise during the lulls in conversation. The man engaged in some small talk with his tablemates, asking where everyone was from, and what they were hoping to find in Scarborough.

For some reason, he didn't share the peculiar quest the beggar had given him.

"A cambric shirt without needlework," he muttered under his breath. "No woman, n't'even the finest seamstress c'do that."

The plate and napkin had been whisked away, so the man pulled out his handkerchief to wipe some of the meat's juice from his fingers. The other handkerchief, tucked deeply in the bottom of his pocket, remained coiled around the next herb to be lost.

Rosemary.

* * *

She remembered rosemary clasped into her mother's cold, pale hands as she lay in her coffin. Cynthia thought she looked like a marble statue, like one of those old Greek goddesses, with the green rosemary in her beautiful white hands and her golden hair brushed out in swirls of loose curls. She remembered wanting to reach out and touch them, but Daddy said she oughtn't, so she bowed her head and remembered how perfect her mother looked, long after they'd put her in the ground.

She remembered her father's bright smile as well, so different from the smooth serenity of her mother's cold face. She remembered it, even, long after it ceased to light his face. She remembered her spaniel's peculiar bark, long after he, too, died, leaving her completely alone. She thought she heard it some days as she wandered the grounds, yipping at her from just over that hill, just over that hill…

But as she ran toward it, laughing and calling for him, the bark changed to her mother's voice, calling, calling, beckoning her closer. She ran faster, ignoring that she was now in the wood, ignoring the branches striping her face and arms.

"Mamma! Timothy! Where are you?" she panted.

She didn't remember where she lost her shoe. She was half senseless from exhaustion when the huntsman found her, but she babbled on about her mother, Timothy, and her shoe.

"Papa, it was Mamma, and Timothy, and… oh! My shoe!" she said, her blue eyes shining with held tears as she hugged his neck with blood-streaked arms. "Where is my shoe? I can't remember! I must remember, Papa!"

"Ssh, dove," he said, holding her tightly and heaving a sigh of relief. "Don't worry about your shoe. Someone is coming to meet you tomorrow, and I think you'll like her. She has two daughters just your size."

But she did worry, even in the flurry of preparation to meet her father's lady friend. She remembered where she hid her cracked green marble; she remembered which tree the chickadee liked to make her nest in; she remembered how to make the sandwich just the way her Papa liked it; she remembered that Nursie didn't like purple and her favorite color was blue; she remembered that deer like salt, not sugar…

But she couldn't remember where she lost her shoe. The two girls teased her when her mind wandered – _where is it?_ – but she didn't notice.

No matter what else happened, her lost shoe was always at the back of her mind. It seemed a silly thing to worry about to most, but to her, it was life-altering. _Where did I lose it? _She always remembered. Everything. Just like Mamma told her to.

_Remember, dove, because you'll never have the same day twice._

She remembered the day her father died. She remembered her step-mother's tears and she remembered hugging her step-sisters as they wept. She remembered wondering why they weren't crying, for all their wailing.

She remembered the day she woke up when Nursie jerked her arm and dragged her to the servant's quarters. She remembered being sleepy and confused. _Where is it? _And still, she worried about her shoe.

All through her change from treasured daughter to reviled servant, she always wondered about her shoe. She tried looking for it once, but didn't dare venture far into the forest, for fear of getting lost and being punished for missing her duties. _Where did I step out of it?_

As if by some cruel twist of fate, she was assigned to polish shoes as her daily task. Every day, she brought out the hundreds of shoes and polished every one, whether it had been worn or not. _Where could it have fallen? _Leather boots, silk slippers, satin flats, velvet, jeweled, high heels, no heels, rough, fragile, shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes...

Shoes filled her days, and thus her nights. She dreamt of shoes, sang of shoes, thought of shoes, and day by day she wondered and worried more and more about her little lost shoe. _Where could it be?_

"A ball! A ball! Oh, mother, we must get a new dress!"

"And shoes!"

Cynthia fought back a smile as she sat in the corner of the room, busily polishing dozens of never-worn ball shoes. _Where is it?_

She remembered the tinkle of the fairy godmother's laugh, the sparkle of her magic, and the breathtaking beauty of the dress.

"I have my own shoes," she started to say, – _where could it be?_ – imagining the sapphire-crusted ones she'd always hated to clean.

"No time, no time! Here, stand still—"

She remembered watching the lanternlight glisten off the shoes as her eyes widened.

"Glass?"

And for the first time in ten years, she didn't worry about her shoe.

* * *

Isa looked back on the mansion that had been her home for – only heaven knew how long it had been. Her father's words rang in her ears, making her urge the strong horse faster through the icy wood.

"Have faith, Isa. We shall see each other again, no matter what the stars say."

"We will, papa. We will," she said, squinting her eyes in determination against the frosty clawing wind. "You have faith, too. Promise."

Geurlenn dropped the mirror, turning his face from the smooth surface with a snarl. A curse on her faith! That's what made him love her, and that's what made him let her go. Her faith was a wall, a wave, a sunset. Beautiful, steadfast, and dependable, always. He knew she would return to him, that was not a question.

Was it?

He shook his shaggy head. She would return.

Would she?

He shook his head angrily again. She would return. She promised she would.

But, what if her ties to her father outweighed her ties to him?

He dug his nails into the dresser, scarring the top.

Of course they did, but her faithfulness, her adherence to her word outweighed them both.

But, love...

The word seared through his heart and took his breath. Yes, she loved her father.

"And that's more than she can say for me," he muttered, glancing out at the gathering storm.

Faithfulness without love was just duty. He didn't want to be a duty to her. He wanted to see the same concern and fervent love in her eyes when she looked at him as when she saw her father. But, if it was not to be had, then, he wouldn't make her stay.

It took more out of him than he thought it would to even think those words. The thought of returning to life alone in the castle was unfathomable, but if she could have faith, so could he. He would be faithful in his promise to her that one night in the library.

"I'll never let you come to harm, if I can help it," he swore to her, in a moment of seriousness.

And she, with laughter still reddening her cheeks, replied that she just wouldn't come to harm and he needn't worry.

But she would come to harm, he knew, if she stayed with him. She would grow old, grow lonely, grow bored of his company. She was a rose, pulled out of the bush and thrust into a vase. He wouldn't entrap her any more. He would send her back, and he would have faith.

Have faith in what?

A happily ever after for himself?

Surely not. He couldn't hope for that.

Well, a happily ever after for her, at least. He would have faith that letting her go was the best thing he could do for her, and indeed, the only thing he could do for her. For if she didn't love him, she deserved more than this life.

Faith, he considered suddenly, was like hope, and faithfulness, like love. In both, however, there was a significant difference. Faith was more confident than hope, and love more potent than faithfulness. Like stepping stones. From hope, to faith, to faithfulness, to love. But not everyone takes the same path. For some, they jump from hope to love. Others, they step from hope, to faith, to faithfulness, and there they rest.

Like—

He shook his head.

He would have hope. He would have faith. He would be faithful. And, he would love, which made the other three all the sweeter.

When she came riding up the path, right on time, he was waiting for her at the door.

* * *


	5. Thyme

_Please let me know, that at least she will try._

* * *

"Two pence, gov'nah, two pence!"

"Tha need tae clear all this roobbish out o' thae road," the man next to him muttered in a heavy brogue.

"Just a pence, just a pence, then, gov'nah, if ye have't t'spah!"

The man dug to the bottom of his pocket, looking for a few coins. His fingers closed around the coins and the handkerchief, tangled together. Carefully, he withdrew the bundle and began to tip the coins into his other hand.

A horse was spooked by a snake in the middle of the road and it reared, whinnying, onto its back feet. The cart it was pulling tilted dangerously, and people drew back with shouts of alarm. In the bustle, the man's hand was jolted and both the handkerchief and the coins were trampled and lost underfoot in the crowd. The sprigs of herb were a powder before the man found the handkerchief again, but he recognized the smell of thyme.

* * *

"You'll thank me for this one day, Dina," her mother said with a wink, fastening the locket around her neck.

"But Mam! I don't want to go!" Dina said, small lip quivering as she hugged her mother fiercely one last time.

"Don't be foolish," her mother chided softly, squeezing her child briefly before holding her at arm's length and lowering herself to eye level. "Now, this locket will bring you great luck if you keep it well."

"What's in it, Mam?" she hiccuped.

"Thyme," her mother whispered in her ear, her breath like the blowing of the breeze in the garden. "Picked from the meadows as the fairies danced, just last night."

And then, before even another word could be spoken, the man from the Duke's house had had quite enough waiting. He took her arm roughly and half escorted, half dragged her to the wagon.

"Goodbye!"

"Mam!"

"Have courage, Dina!"

Dina never saw her mother again. She cried herself to sleep for the first few weeks, but even that gave way to a dull ache in time. She did not feel very courageous. She busied herself with her new job, the job she knew her mother had sacrificed her own daughter for – the only life she had any chance with. If she worked hard enough, her mother said, she could become a lady-in-waiting for the Duchess, or the Lady Imogene.

A lady-in-waiting! The thought made her scrub the stone floors with more vigor, smile more brightly, and curtsy more prettily. Her mother had told her stories of ladies-in-waiting who were given beautiful things for their services, in addition to their bountiful salaries and lush living quarters.

Her mother had courage. Dina knew that. She was not overly optimistic — indeed, Dina had never heard her say more than three hopeful statements in her memory — but she also never breathed a word of complaint, no matter how terrible the situation.

Having courage, she had told Dina once on a cold, cold night when they had no wood, was nothing more than staring at life in the face and telling it that you weren't afraid. Even if you were afraid, if you thought about how strong you were, you became stronger. Dina didn't understand.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered to herself, hiding in the sliding panel of the carriage floor. "I am not afraid."

"_Get in, Lady Imogene!"_

"_No, no; I shan't fit! My skirts—"_

"_You must try, my lady!"_

"_No, Dina. You must get in."_

"_But, my lady! They will—"_

"_I know, darling. Get in. Do not argue!"_

"_My lady—"_

"_Hush, do not make a sound. Not one sound, Dina, do you hear me?"_

"_Yes, my lady."_

"_When everything has been quiet for an hour, then follow the path back to the manor. We've only— they're coming!"_

"I am not afraid. I am not afraid."

She clutched at the tarnished silver locket, rubbing her thumb against it as she squeezed her eyes shut. _Give me courage, Mam. I need your courage._

Eerie silence settled over the crippled carriage. After an hour had passed, Dina stiffly moved the sliding panel and stretched herself with an unconscious "Oh!" of pain. She smelled something metallic and sticky, and her stomach swirled when she saw the blood on the seat.

"I am not afraid," she repeated, carefully lifting herself out of the small space.

Knowing what had to have happened, judging by the smell, and the screams—screams—endless screams that she had heard, she didn't look to the left or right as she stepped down from the carriage. She thought she saw an arm, which might have been connected to a body, somewhere off to the front of the carriage, but she stared straight ahead.

"I am not afraid."

She tried to follow the path back to the manor, but she soon heard sounds of the bandits, camping for the night, and all courage vanished. She fled into the woods with abandon, running as fast as her legs would carry her. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she didn't notice.

"Oh, I _am_ afraid," she said to herself, hiccupping, and hugging herself in a moonlit clearing. "And stupid. Now I'll never get home. Stupid, Dina. They didn't even hear you. Oh!"

She swatted at something that had brushed her arm, but a muffled coo, not a bat's screech or a man's yell, responded. A white dove flapped its wings rapidly, bobbing slightly up and down at eye level. A small key was in its beak. She held her hand out, not sure exactly what she was planning to do, and the dove dropped it into her hand.

"Oh," she repeated, turning the key over in her hand.

The key opened a tree, which held a room, and a bed, and new clothes. Every time she was in need, the dove would appear with a key. Sometimes, the dove would speak. It would talk in a sweet, chirping voice, asking her to do a strange thing – find the spring that runs crystal clear, and bring a handful of water to this tree, or that. Always a tree, and always just a handful. But, he had warned her not to drink it. She didn't mind; she thought she owed him a few strange favors for all his gifts to her.

One day, when he asked her to do a larger favor, and stranger than before, she agreed without hesitation.

"It will be a test of your courage," he warned.

"M-my courage?" she asked. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't have very much of that."

"Do you wear a sprig of thyme around your neck for naught?" the dove had asked.

Her hand closed around the locket.

"How did you—"

"I know thyme, and I know courage. You, my lady, have both."

"My lady," she whispered, smiling at the title being used in reference to her.

She accomplished his task, though it did test her courage. When the old woman had come at her with that knife, she heard again the screams of Lady Imogene. But, she dodged the knife and snatched the birdcage, running from the house. She took the plain golden ring from the beak of the silvery owl, and then set the owl free.

"My dove? Dove!" she called.

"Here I am."

"Oh!"

The voice was accompanied by a warm, tanned hand on her arm. Her eyes followed the hand, up the arm, to his golden brown eyes.

"Oh," she repeated on a rush of air.

"You seem to like that word, my courageous lady," he said quietly.

"Oh, I mean, yes, I mean, who are you?" she stammered.

He smiled, and told her his story. And then, accompanied by all his friends, restored to their human forms, he took her back to his castle. She became Princess Dina, but she was called, more commonly, the Lady of Thyme.

* * *

"_I know it is him, Marina."_

The mermaid's head poked above the water. She did not look at all comfortable in the cool harbor breeze. Her tail twitched in the black depths, willing to propel her back to the deep.

"_You are silly. He is a two-legged. How can it be him?"_

"_I—I know it is."_

The girl tucked some brown hair behind her ear and looked over her shoulder, to be sure no one saw her.

"_How do you know?"_

The girl remembered the thyme, the thyme that had flavored the tea she drank while the crone watched her carefully.

"_There is an herb – a – a seaweed, that grows here on land. It tells you who your love is."_

The mermaid wrinkled her nose.

"_It talks?"_

"_No, you must ask a magic one to help you know."_

The mermaid hissed; it was a bubbling, harsh sound.

"_They have magic, these two-leggeds?"_

"_They do."_

"_Celine, I do not think this is right."_

"_I know it is him. He is my Love."_

"_Will you kiss him, then?"_

The mermaid looked intently up at the human girl.

"_I will try. If he will have me."_

"Floshooriiin," the mermaid whispered aloud.

"_I love you, too."_


	6. Epilogue

_Love imposes impossible tasks._

* * *

He was supposed to know her when he saw her.

The man clutched the handkerchief, dirty, empty, and ripped at the corner. The beggar had said brown hair, with green eyes. Right? How could he be expected to find one woman in the middle of the bustle of Scarborough Fair? No, he couldn't be expected to do that. It was ridiculous.

"Here's your soup, sir."

He took the bread bowl from the woman's hands, giving her a few coins. He watched her hands, pale and fast, searching for his change in her apron pocket. She pressed a small coin into his hand.

Something prompted him to look up.

Her eyes, greener than a lush meadow, connected with his for a split second before sliding away. Rich brown hair was plaited down her back.

"Uhhnn," he said, hesitating as he put the coin in his pocket.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked quietly, looking suspiciously back into his eyes.

"I, uh, I 'ave a message for ye," he said, fumbling for the handkerchief he'd pushed back into his pocket.

"From whom?" she asked, clearly not believing his stuttering speech.

Someone behind the man jostled him impatiently.

"I... don' rightly know," the man said, seizing the ratty piece of cloth from his pocket and pulling it out. "But 'e gave me this. It had s'm herbs in it. An' 'e said ta tell ye ta – ta make 'im a cambric shirt, without no seams or needlework. And then, ye'll be 'is love again."

He looked apologetic for his strange message as he handed her the handkerchief. She looked stunned, fingering the piece of cloth.

"Thank you," she said, sounding like she was choking.

"Ye're quite welcome," the man said, and hurried away.

* * *

_But not any more than a true heart could ask._


	7. Fairy Tales Used

Parsley:

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Rapunzel

Sage:

Sleeping Beauty

Snow White

Rosemary:

Cinderella

Beauty and the Beast

Thyme:

The White Dove

The Little Mermaid

_Note: It seems, I think, that the two most confusing for most of the readers were Rapunzel and The White Dove. Rapunzel was more vague, though I did drop a few hints about his being blind, and about her hair being freshly cut. I'd forgotten that most versions end with Rapunzel's tears curing the man's blindness, and so accidentally gave it a more tragic ending; his sight it never restored. Is that a bit less confusing now?_

_I think the confusion with The White Dove stems from the tale, apparently, being a not very well known fairy tale. Silly Billi has it in her fairy tale book, so she thought it must be elsewhere! But, upon trying to find it, it was not to be found. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and am going to briefly summarize the story here so you know what on earth I am talking about. This is all from my (rather faulty) memory, as I've also lost the fairy tale book itself. Bother! (And before you get suspicious, **Clare**__, yes, this is almost directly copied and pasted from my PM to you)_

_The basic concept of that story (as I remember it) is a maiden escapes from the carriage when highwaymen attack it and gets lost in the woods. She's met by a white dove who gives her a key that unlocks a tree with a room and bed for her to sleep in. Whenever she's hungry, needs new clothes, or anything, he gives her a key that will open up a room or cupboard in the trees. _

_Eventually, he asks her to do something for him, and she readily agrees. He leads her to a cottage in the wood, and tells her that a witch lives inside. She'll be sitting in a wood chair inside the door. She must pass by on the witch's left (or right? I don't remember) side and go to the table in the room behind her. On the table are many fine pieces of jewelry, but he wants only the plain golden ring. _

_She does as he says, but can't find the ring. She hears a noise behind her and sees the witch sneaking out of the house with a birdhouse under her arm. In the bird's beak is the golden ring. The maiden gets the ring somehow (Maybe she kills the witch, but I don't recall, honestly) and goes to find the dove, who's vanished. _

_A handsome prince appears and explains that the witch had turned him into a dove, only free to fly the earth for an hour at dawn and an hour at dusk. She turned his comrades into trees, and the maiden watches as many trees slowly turn into fine, handsome human men. He takes her back to his kingdom and marries her, and they all live happily ever after._


End file.
